


Fall Into Stars

by xenosexual



Series: Shine On Me Tonight [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: (if you squint), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Character Death, Pre-Canon, Trans Armitage Hux, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-21 02:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13731249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenosexual/pseuds/xenosexual
Summary: A young Captain Hux faces one of his first true tests as an upcoming First Order officer; unfortunately, he makes choices he may not live to regret.





	Fall Into Stars

**Author's Note:**

> an exploratory work beta'd by a good pal of mine. canon's followed, to a point. i fill in some gaps and take some liberties.

The white-armored soldiers clash, riot batons crackling and hissing as they strike each other, blows raining down on shields, on limbs too slow to be tucked in or drawn away. Both sets of troopers are well matched; any ground gained by one side of the room is taken back almost as quickly as it’s lost. 

But the hawkish gaze of the young Captain Hux falls on one trooper in particular, barely listening to the idle prattling of his father to his fawning little right hand, Cardinal. It’s a rare trip to the  _ Finalizer  _ for the red-festooned trooper, a little reunion—  _ blah blah blah _ . 

Armitage Hux simply can’t care less; he tracks the one soldier and— 

_ There!  _

The trooper has a clear shot to land a blow on a fallen comrade-turned-mock-enemy, their shield dropped carelessly and baton held up futilely, but he pulls back. A last second decision that merely grazes his fellow’s arm guard as he feigns the rest of the swipe and darts back, his own shield raised again.

It was inconceivable and the younger Hux swears he had to have seen wrong…    
  
Except this isn’t the first time he’s seen Stormtrooper DF-6066 pull his punches in practice bouts with uncharacteristic awareness, as if he’s all too cognizant of how hard he can hit, what it’d do to his sparring-partner.    
  
_ That _ is the point. The newly promoted Captain Phasma is a harsh commander and a harsh trainer; the best teacher, in her opinion, for older recruits and existing soldiers is experience, the painful realities of victory and defeat.

...Hux’s eyesight is perfectly fine, he knows this.

These are brief moments he witnesses: a delay in a block, the slowing of a thrown punch, a missed hit, or a deliberate pause pre-strike, spread out over expanses of time in a way that most would skim over, dismiss as one-off events. But Armitage Hux has been watching  _ so very closely  _ since he first witnessed this particular trooper take aim during a peacekeeping outing a year prior…    
  
And  _ miss _ .   
  
He  _ knew _ it was intentional, he  _ watched _ as the trooper steadily turned a few degrees to the left; he hadn’t been jostled or jerked off his target. He  _ chose. _ .    
  
Stormtroopers do not ‘choose.’ Not in combat, not on duty. There is no allowance for deviation from orders.

None of DF-6066’s current platoon-mates display this aberrant behavior, nor former ones, all the way back to his days in training, Hux checked (double checked, triple checked). Any effort that Captain Hux undertook to explain what he was witnessing to his father, to  _ General _ Hux, were dismissed, handwaved away.

_ ‘You’re seeing things,  _ boy, _ let it alone.’  _ He’s imaging it, he’s fixating, he’s being hysterical, he’s looking for a problem where there isn’t one ( _ he’s salivating for a chance to prove his father wrong, wrong, wrong, sycophantic little boy looking for a chance to impress his superiors, desperate for a chance to leave his own ambitious little mark on The Program-- _ ); DF-6066 is a perfectly _ average _ trooper who maintains  _ average  _ marks across the board, save for some above average tendencies in piloting. DF-6066, who has consistently served the First Order for the past four standard years without a single complaint against him since graduating from the  _ perfectly  _ designed Stormtrooper program.    
  
There hasn’t been a single flaw in The Program yet, apart from prospects who never proved out, who never submitted to the will of the Order completely, who were too slow, too soft, too—

But DF-6066  _ had _ , DF-6066  _ is a perfectly normal trooper _ , a good soldier, a good brother in arms, a—     
  
DF-6066  _ had not  _ given himself entirely and he  _ was not _ a perfectly normal trooper, and not a single soul believed Captain Hux that this single soldier is a grain of  _ sand _ in the beautiful war machine they had all been meticulously building. Giving their  _ lives _ for. 

  
That’s fine, he tells himself as he leans in a little closer to the viewing glass overseeing the match as Captain Phasma barks out orders below, eyes narrowed and mouth drawn thin.    
  
He has a  _ plan _ to draw out whatever vile undercurrent is lurking beneath the unassuming white plastoid, whatever streak of nonconformity is hiding in plain sight, threatening to spread and infect everything around it. It would not be tolerated. It could not be allowed to exist, to fester, to  _ pollute _ \--    
  
Abruptly, he turns on his heels and marches from the room, his fellow officers sharing a brief,  _ ‘ah, there he goes again’ _ sort of look, a single-shoulder jerk of a shrug; the self important son of an equally self important old man, on some new crusade no one asked him to undertake. 

 

* * *

It wasn’t difficult to procure the clearances necessary for an off-ship excursion, a made-up scouting mission for resources (be they material or prospective Stormtroopers) on some uncontrolled, backwater planet. He’d be the only attending officer, with a small squadron of Stormtroopers at his command. 

DF-6066 is among their number, of course. His identification code requested close to the end of the list  _ but not dead last _ . No, no, he felt that was too obvious. (Of  _ what _ and to  _ whom _ , he wasn’t even sure.) 

The trooper takes his place in the pilot’s seat, armored hands working the controls with practiced ease. 

Hux half expects DF-6066 to crash the Upsilon, if the soldier suspects that the captain is keen to his deception.

He doesn’t; they breach the atmosphere without so much as a bump, the black-metal shuttle gliding to the ground like a bird. The trooper gently directs his novice co-pilot in his duties as well. 

Perhaps DF-6066 is undeserving of only “above average” in piloting— and perhaps, he muses, of his scrutiny. There’s been nothing amiss yet, and he’s handling his inexperienced second with grace... not a single thing that he could hear or see from his position behind the (pilots chamber) has so far validated his hypothesis; no, he reminds himself, all infractions are minor glitches, hiccups that go nearly unnoticed and don’t occur frequently. It hasn’t been long enough. 

He hasn’t given DF-6066 the chance to out himself yet. 

 

* * *

The stormtroopers stand at attention while Captain Hux looks over notes on his datapad, unrelated jottings that have more to do with future projects and designs than the “mission.” 

Not that they know this; they simply stand in two rows on crunchy grass, ready to be dispatched and do whatever he asks of them. With a curled lip, he remembers his childhood; the parallels he recalls are distinctly uncomfortable. He shakes it off, holds his head high, his arms folded neatly behind his back as he surges between the rows. 

“CX-7831,” the trooper steps forward immediately at the reference and hastily takes the datapad shoved in her direction, “You will remain in charge while I and DF-6066 go ahead.” He gives the second trooper a sideways glance as he steps out of the row and walks behind the captain as if on autopilot; quickly, methodically, as if there  _ isn’t  _ a person inside the armor. “No need for a basecamp. Repel any nosey locals, dispatch threats. That is all.”   
  
DF-6066 stands at attention a few feet from the man’s back, blaster held in both hands, ready to assess and terminate threats.  _ Like a good Stormtrooper.   _   
  
Hux turns away from the scene playing out behind him,  _ those _ were good soldiers. Obedient to a fault; they wouldn’t disappoint (intrigue,  _ infuriate _ ) him. He trusts this much.    


 

* * *

 

 

It’s  _ irritating, _ he thinks to himself, how easily the pretender…  _ pretends. _ There still hasn’t been a single display of defiance, of minute, cavalier disobedience. 

  
He pinches the bridge of his nose while DF-6066 operates the single speeder that particular Upsilon harbored; they sit in silence as the dry, dull green of the field they landed in gives way to a well trodden path, dry and gritty. It isn’t terribly warm but he feels  _ hot _ under his light grey uniform, and he knows it’s the building discomfort of sneaking around like a  _ naughty child _ ; all this  _ effort _ to prove an insignificant man is a fraud.

He’s come too far to call it off now, given too much of his time and attention just let it go-- his own pride forbids it. The Stormtroopers wouldn’t go mindlessly chit-chatting about mission details nor would they go running off to  _ his _ superiors about it. Captain Phasma, perhaps, and while even _ she _ believes he’s reading too deeply things… she’s loathes nosy subordinates.

That little problem would solve itself then, he thinks to himself, an ugly little sneer on his face as he looks away and at the passing scenery.    


 

* * *

 

The town isn’t as dusty as the packed soil of the main road, much to Hux’s quiet relief. Dirt clings hideously to his uniform, the unappealing grey splotched with brown; as is, he has to pat some of it off the leg of his trousers. 

“Euch.” 

Wrinkles his nose and fishes out a small bag from the speeder, jerks his head to DF-6066. _Follow me._   
  
He picked this planet, this town, for a reason; it’s a low tech world but it’s a frequent enough stop by travelers--both wordly and beyond--while being far enough away from the major galactic players’ attentions. Its various hubs all come equipped with quaint (disgusting) little inns, not much in the way of privacy from immediate room-neighbors, but it’ll do an adequate job at shielding them from forces greater than some nattering old crone across the hall...  
  
The trooper looms a few feet behind him, quiet and watchful, as he works out a deal with the scrawny, purple-skinned alien behind the counter, seemingly unfazed by the armed, faceless warrior. They aren’t handing the key over just yet, twirling it over long, spindly fingers.   
  
“Not maaany of your kin here,” they note. Over the key goes, under the key goes, and Hux’s fingers twitch as he reaches for it, only to have it pulled just a little out of reach.   
  
“Mm, rare in these parts, I suppose,” it’s a struggle to keep the irritation out of his voice. 

“But if we could only have the  _ key-- _ ” There’s  _ work _ to be done; he doesn’t want to cause a scene by losing his temper… except he feels the flush creeping up his neck, under the collar of his uniform jacket, in a most unfortunate tell.    
  
“Aaa strong paaartner,” they bleat, nodding at the trooper, silent as ever, “Look how glooossy the exoskin is! Heaaalthy.” Forks the key over in a jabbing motion and it’s met with a quick grab.    
  
“That is  _ not-- _ ” Sets his jaw and closes his eyes briefly. No,  _ no, _ he is not dignifying  _ that  _ nonsense with a response. 

“Go.” 

He hands the key to DF-6066 and shoos him away, down the hall to the room he booked as he grinds his teeth, an attempt to avoid mumbling under his breath.  _ He’s come too far, _ repeats like a mantra in his head even as the door shuts behind him, his trooper already about-faced in the middle of the oddly shaped room, staring ahead and waiting for another directive, key in hand.    
  
“Give me that,” he snaps, plucking the key from armored fingers and sets it down on the  _ sticky _ table. Makes a face, a noise of disgust, but Hux sets his bag down all the same, plucking a notebook from its confines. Old school, outdated, but he didn’t have to worry about someone spying on him through a piece of paper in the event he had to scribble down a note or two.    
  
“DF-6066, do you know why we’re here?”    
  
“No, sir.” No attitude in his tone, no hint of emotion.    
  
“...holster your weapon. At ease.” Immediate compliance, the blaster affixing itself to its holster with a soft _ znnngh, _ and DF-6066’s arms come to a rest at his sides.    
  
The captain leans back against the table, its edge digging into the backs of his thighs. 

“Take your helmet off,” his voice is clipped but commanding. He wants to get a good look at this man before--    
  
Hux draws in a sharp breath, too young, too inexperienced to  _ not _ let the shock play over his features.    
  
“You’re not  _ pure. _ ” It’s hardly above a whisper as he drinks in the sight of black scleras, a trait that is  _ deliciously  _ nonhuman _ ;  _ that truth  _ alone _ is enough to be rid of DF-6066. Permanently. He flicks his gaze over the jagged scars across the man’s face but disregards them for now.    


Silence. There’s no response as the trooper stands stock still, helmet in hand, breathing in, breathing out--    
  
“Is this how you’ve resisted indoctrination? Conditioning?” 

The young captain is circling him, eagerly, one hand on the blaster at his hip, a predator with his prey cornered at long last, but DF-6066 isn’t  _ acting _ like he’s been exposed, isn’t panicking, isn’t--     
  
“Answer me,” the command is barked out, only barely streaked with a mad sort of desperation.

“I don’t understand, sir.” That same  _ asinine  _ inflection, a default, a  _ lie— _ but without the distortion of the helmet _.  _ It’s almost believable,  _ almost _ , especially given the softer undertones of his true voice…

He stops behind the trooper, the blaster ignored in its holster for now in favor of the quiet  _ shnnk _ of the blade up his sleeve being drawn out. 

“You  _ will. _ ” It’s a promise, one he intends fulfil as the edge of the knife is pressed against the tender edge of DF-6066’s throat. The body before him tenses and Hux’s hand responds in turn, pressing the blade just a  _ touch  _ harder, drawing forth a bead of blood—

He isn’t given a chance to  _ literally _ dig deeper, his jaw hitting the floor with a  _ CRACK _ as his would-be quarry launches into an assault, his knife arm wrenched painfully behind him; the sheer  _ euphoria _ of being  _ right _ , being  _ validated _ makes the crisp throb of his split lip and protesting joints worth it. The standard issue white trooper helm has been discarded a few feet away. 

“I  _ knew _ it—” he spits, twisting his head to look over his shoulder, lips drawn in a half sneer, half grin but  _ all _ feral delight. 

“I knew you weren’t  _ normal _ . What are you, a traitor? A spy?” His hair, immaculate and impeccably set had come free in the lopsided skirmish, a fringe of red now messily resting over his forehead. 

DF-6066 wrinkles his nose, “You _ were _ watching,” disbelief bleeds through every word, “It’s been, what, a year— you've been keeping tabs on me that long?” Hux’s questions are disregarded in favor of his own. 

“You should have found better hobbies.” 

“Don’t— how  _ dare  _ you _ scold  _ me !” The distinctly patronizing, disappointed tone wasn’t a sound he was unfamiliar with, but hearing it come from a subordinate, a mere  _ trooper _ ? He thrashes with renewed vigor under the steady weight of DF-6066 holding him against the floor, immovable, his free hand trying to swat and hit anything he can reach. He only stops when his strained shoulder threatens to pop. 

Stilling, he breathes hard, eyeing everything around them, trying to find something within reach. His own holster is beyond his fingertips, as is DF-6066’s.

A huff of breath. 

“Your reputation of being a flighty, touchy… guy proceeds you.” 

That little, deliberate pause has Hux tensing; what does he  _ know _ ? 

“You  _ are _ a spy, aren’t you? Resistance scum—“ 

“I’m just a  _ guy, _ you horse’s ass. Another gutter mutt picked up by ya daddy.” The voice above him hisses.

“Why would I believe that?” licks his lip, soothing the split a little while he tries to  _ think _ , if he could get his hand  _ over-- _

“Because it’s the truth--”    
  
“You’d say  _ anything _ to save your skin--”    
  
“Who  _ wouldn’t _ ?” DF-6066 snaps, “That’s all I’ve been doin’ since I got here. I was nineteen winters when your old man rolled through our town and it’s, fuck,” his voice takes on a dejected edge, “It’s been four years? Five?”    
  
That doesn’t make  _ sense _ , not the bitter tone, he ignores that, it’s unimportant, “Nineteen is too  _ old _ , you lie. My father--”    
  
“Is a desperate, self-serving fool.”    
  
Hux snorts; on that, they’re in agreement. 

“Is that all, then?” He jerks his shoulder up, but the trooper’s weight doesn’t budge an inch, “I’m to just believe you’ve avoided the full effects of my father’s programing simply by virtue of being too old to be influenced? Not because you’re some rebel infiltrator or because you’re some  _ half-breed _ ?” lets the last word roll off his tongue, derisive, like it in of itself is some sort of  _ barb _ .    
  
“You Hux men are kriffin’ charmers, you know that?” DF-6066 rolls back a bit, putting more weight on the heels of his feet and slowly lowers his would-be attacker’s arm down to a more comfortable position. 

“I joined to try to make some side scratch for my family, you posh niff-nuzzler, but jokes on me: the compensation is horse-shit and we can’t send it out.” Now he’s just mouthing off, and DF-6066 thinks, why  _ not _ ? The ghost has been  _ got _ , the cat’s out of the bag: he either tries to make a break for it and gets shot, or he gets shot well before then, and  _ those _ are the best case scenarios.    
  
“Yeah, I was too old for it, too content, too _ loved _ to be brainwashed. I had a family who  _ loved _ me and I haven’t  _ seen _ them in years because some polished bastard in a ship offered me a shot at something  _ more _ . I guess he couldn’t find enough desperate kids to spirit away that year, you know, the ones easy to  _ exploit _ .”    
  
The redhead resists the urge to roll his eyes, “That’s all well and good--”    
  
DF-6066 narrows his eyes.    
  
“But  _ now _ what?” It’s a challenge, and a potentially deadly gambit, Hux knows.    
  
“What do you mean  _ now what? _ I thought you had this whole little… what _ ever _ this is planned out. You’ve got a reputation for that. The Order’s ‘pet tactician.’”    
  
The faint flush creeps up the back of Hux’s neck again.

“I took a risk trying to draw the real you out.” 

It’s embarrassing to even  _ think _ of it, and he’d rather  _ die _ than say it aloud, but he hadn’t planned beyond this moment, too lazer-focused on just exposing DF-6066 as the thought-traitor he so clearly is.    
  
“You… were just going to stab some poor sod in the neck to prove a  _ point? _ ” The incredulity is dripping off each word; it’s wretched from a moral standpoint and wasteful from a practical one, the latter view is one the First Order would care more for, the trooper knew. 

“Just gonna leave my body here after you slit my throat? ‘ _ Oh, poor DF-6066 met an unfortunate end, let's go home, lads.’ _ ”    
  
“Something to that effect, yes.”    
  
“Maker’s  _ ass _ .” A harsh, nasally inhale.

Twists his wrist a little in DF-6066’s grip, “What will you do now, then? Kill me and flee? You _could_ , no one would know,” he has no intention of dying and DF-6066 is anomalous, so perhaps…   
  
Except DF-6066 is gazing down at him, unnerving, inhuman eyes narrowed and Hux notices the pupils are slitted like a reptiles. He’s _considering_ , he realizes. A miscalculation; the smaller man swallows hard. He’s utterly lost control. Of himself, this trooper, this entire situation.   
  
A knock at the door startles the pair, DF-6066 jerking his head up, his hold tightening on his captive; they hold still, remaining quiet as the knocking pauses, then resumes. The trooper looks down and Hux shakes his head--these dingy little inns are known for seclusion, everyone minding their business…   
  
It’s as aberrant as DF-6066 himself; they hadn’t even _been_ that loud, and if they’d disturbed someone, surely they would have pounded on the walls instead of going to the door--   
  
The knocking ceases. Hux feels the trooper relax only marginally above him but it’s enough for the man to buck _up_ , catching him off his guard enough to free himself, pushing upward onto his knees and then onto his feet as he turns--   
  
But DF-6066 had sprung back as soon as the captain had gotten enough leverage to dislodge him, and quickly taken an advantageous spot in the bathroom’s alcove, more defensible, out of sight from the door--   
  
Kriff, the _door_.   
  
Hux has enough time to turn to face it as it’s forced off its hinges, and he scrambles for cover behind the bed, leveling a furious glare at the _traitor._   
  
“ _I_ didn’t do it,” DF-6066 curls his lip, making a face right back at his (former, he supposes) superior, the sour expressing melting off his face as a blast bolt flies past it. He draws himself further behind the wall; an impossible target as long as he stays behind the bend…   
  
The far side of the bed takes heavy fire, fluff and down erupting from the bedding, the acrid odor of burning organic material flooding the room. Hux’s hiding spot isn’t as auspicious as his; it won’t be long until there’s little left to shield him, and DF-6066 looks at him--searching and deep.   
  
The young captain isn’t looking at him, too preoccupied by the assault coming from the opposite side of the room and the trooper is struck by how _young_ he really is. Twenty or so? Not that much younger than himself, but troopers experience much more--much _worse_ \--than their officer counterparts much earlier. His stint as a soldier has aged him beyond his years.   
  
That difference is painfully apparent now. He sees it in the animal panic marking Hux’s face; trapped and for once in real danger, he _looks_ like a kid in over his head ( _he is, aren’t they all?)_ and DF-6066 sighs forcefully through his teeth as he unholsters his blaster to shoot out the hinges of the bathroom door, a sturdy composite metal. 

Holding it like a makeshift shield at his side, the trooper rocks back on his heels, eyes on Hux. The other man isn’t looking at him, he’s staring at some spot on the floor, doubtlessly trying to worm his way out of this debacle, to get out alive— 

“You were  _ wrong. _ ” It’s a loud, harsh assertion of fact as DF-6066 charges forward, startling his captain back into reality. The trooper briefly relishes how he jerks away, unsure of DF-6066’s intentions— 

“What,” he shouts back, confused, eyes flicking between the side of the bed and his approaching subordinate, and to the hail of blaster fire still ricocheting off the door.

“You were  _ wrong _ ,” he repeats as he reaches his target, slamming the makeshift shield between them and the bed, some measure of real cover, “ _ I’d  _ know.” 

Cryptic, but Hux recognizes it as a delayed response to his early provocation. Sentimentality and mercy, two more  _ glitches  _ in the Program. 

Glitches in DF-6066, more likely. He debates whether or not to try to dispatch him here and now, with the assault as cover. A hero’s death for their  _ perfectly average _ trooper, an imperfection on the record scrubbed clean-- 

Noise.

He blinks, the trooper is  _ yelling  _ at him, snapping his fingers in Hux’s face and his expression twists in irritation, “As of now I’m still your superior, and you will treat me—”

“Your superiority complex ain’t gonna keep you alive, is it?” DF-6066 snaps back, “Focus up and we both might make it.” 

Hux’s mouth draws in a thin line, annoyance palpable, but he nods, “ _ Fine _ . What’s  _ your _ plan?” 

DF-6066 closes his eyes and turns his head away a bit. 

“ _ Ah, sleeping on the job, lovely. _ ” Hux reaches out and flicks his finger against the plastoid chest piece. “Disloyal  _ and _ as empty-headed as your helmet! You’re a real prize.”

“I’m  _ thinking. _ ” 

“Think  _ faster. _ ” 

“Helpful! Please, continue distracting me while  _ not _ suggesting anything. Really choice, just ace.” 

It’s childish, and he regrets it as soon as he does it, but Hux  _ sticks his tongue out _ at the other man who stares at him, “Are you  _ five _ ?” Perhaps, at this rate, their attackers will just get bored of their banter and snark and leave on their own. 

DF-6066 looks around the bare corner of the room, catching the scent of the burned bedding; it’s worse now--there’s smoke wafting overhead. There’s nothing in their corner that could help them, no window to break out of (assuming there’s no one waiting outside) no end table to fashion another little shield out of— 

An idea.

It’d be a start.

He pulls a pulseknife from his utility belt, not entirely standard issue but it’s proven useful in a pinch; Hux stills at the sight, and swallows, adam’s apple bobbing slightly. He had started to bank on the  _ defect’s _ compassion, but this wasn’t entirely unexpected, unwarranted-- he  _ had _ almost slit the man’s throat himself.    
  
“Not for  _ you, _ ” The blade ignites, a bizarre teal-pink glow, humming with a burning energy and the trooper drives it down throught the door’s bulk, cleaving it in half in ragged, hard strokes, “ _ I’m _ not stab happy.”    
  
Fair, but Hux frowns all the same, “Oh, can’t we just let bygones be bygones,” he mocks.

“Ah, yeah,” shoves one half of the scrap at the redheaded snot, “I’ll just go ahead and forget the attempted murder, the stalking, and this,  _ this _ I’m counting as attempted kidnapping--”    
  
“I thought you said you were far from being a  _ child. _ ” Now he’s just being difficult for its own sake, but there’s something soothing in the scathing banter. It’s giving him something other than penned-in-panic to focus on, grounding him.    
  
“It’s just called kidnapping, there isn’t—oh, you’re such an ass.” If they live through this and Hux doesn’t have him executed or shot in the back, DF-6066  _ might  _ find this whole exchange amusing. Might. 

“Just— stay here. Stay low, head down. And for kark’s sake, keep a hand on your blaster.” 

Hux shoots him a leveling glare, eyes narrowed, “I don’t know  _ who _ you think  _ you  _ are, lecturing  _ me _ but I am your—what are--what are you doing?” He cuts himself off, sputtering. 

His  _ imbecilic  _ trooper is looking around, stupefied.

“Oh, I’m just, you know, looking for someone who gives a druk.” Hux earns himself an equally withering look. DF-6066 doesn’t say anything further, only turns himself around and adjusts his grip on his half of the door. Pauses. Steels himself. 

There’s no roar, no shout of defiance as he launches up onto his feet, boots scraping along the wooden floor. He’s dead silent. 

Dead _ ly _ silent, Hux muses as the armored figure charges off and out of his sight. 

He can still hear the heavy, hurried pace, laser pulses bouncing off the metal chunk— holds his breath when he hears a heavy, wet-burn-sizzle. One of the blasts hit their mark,  _ a  _ mark; the lack of a thud, a crash leads Hux to believe whatever was hit wasn’t vital or at least wasn’t vital enough to  _ stop it, _ though _. _ Was that training or was it some drive uniquely DF-6066? 

Shouting— one, three voices? The dull clatter-clang of metal colliding with flesh, the hiss-crackle of more blaster fire, of… fists? Morbid curiosity wants him to peek, just a quick look, but he’d much rather keep his head attached to his shoulders, so he stays tucked down with one shoulder pressed against the metal. The wait feels much longer than it probably is--seconds, a minute, maybe. 

Everything’s quiet. Still. 

Boots that he can’t tell the make of on wood. He lifts his blaster, ready to mow down whoever is stupid enough to round the corner unannounced. His own knife is exposed for good measure, though he doesn’t intend to let anyone get _ that _ close to him.

The heavy tracking stops at the other side of the bed. 

“You can put the blaster down, dummy.” 

Wisely, DF-6066 doesn’t approach further, instead waits for Hux to peer around the corner, confirming there are no others. “No confirmed kills, kept my head behind the damn door as much as possible.” A gloved palm slides over his short, regulation-length buzzcut. 

“They booked it as soon as I breached the hallway.”    
  
The redhead looks him up and down, slowly, “Why didn’t  _ you _ run.” he drawls. 

“I have nowhere better to be.”

It’s a short, painfully honest answer that Hux wasn’t expecting.   
  
“Fair enough.” 

He rises carefully, sheathing the blade but keeping the blaster in hand, and dusts himself off. The room is trashed, utterly, and the silence beyond the room leads him to believe that there was an amount of pre-meditation to this attack. Not random enough--they didn’t demand payment, try to take anything… they only wanted blood, and fled as soon as--    
  
“Why did you... “ It wasn’t  _ really _ a rescue, but DF-6066 came to his side, ensured the captain was protected. He’s not bound by conditioning; it wasn’t a logical choice. Hux gestures weakly at the half a door, the jagged edge of it catching in the light from the window.    
  
The trooper stands a few feet away from him, not taking his eyes off him; it’s a weary look on his face. He’s fully expecting that blaster to be drawn on him next, Hux realizes.    
  
But DF-6066 shrugs a shoulder, easy and lackadaisical, “Was the right thing to do.”    
  
A small huff parts Hux’s lips, “If you’re genuinely… _ unhappy _ with the First Order, letting me  _ die _ , saving your own skin would have been right thing to do.”    
  
The look he gets in turn is thoroughly unimpressed, brow cocked, head tilted to the side, “You’re a kid, not gonna let you die just because I  _ don’t agree _ with the Order.” A funny emphasis on-- Hux realizes it’s vaguely mocking, and he colors a touch at the entire sentiment.    
  
“I-- ‘m not a  _ child _ .” He straightens his back, widens his stance and holsters his gun with a sharp slamming motion, “I am your  _ superior _ , your  _ captain _ , you will--”    
  
DF-6066’s face is incredulous, a mix of  _ are we really doing this _ and  _ are you serious _ with a touch of resignation. “You almost slit my throat-- I admitted I’m not one of your brainwashed lackies… and you’re acting like you’re  _ not _ going to immediately execute me.”    
  
Hux opens his mouth, turns his head and. Can’t muster a response. Closes his mouth, lips pursing. 

“You’ve been shot.” 

Ignores the confliction, the contradiction, but it is  _ not _ a change of heart, he has not forgotten, not forgiven the walking crime in front of him, but this error  _ is  _ worth more to him alive and intact. For the moment. 

“You need medical attention.” Walking briskly, Hux brushes past him, back to the now upturned desk; he gathers what he can of the few belongings he brought with him, leaving nothing behind for the nosy to rummage through. 

“And for gods’ sake, put your helmet back on.”    
  
A pause, and the trooper stares after him, watching as he waits by the doorway. 

“I can’t go to medical.” But he obeys, looking around the room for the fallen armament, lost in their earlier scuffle, its location further obscured in the following shootout; once it’s retrieved, he slides it back into place before gently palming the singed spot on his side. Realizing his ‘superior’ is waiting for him, he snorts but catches up. Taps the helm’s eyepiece.     
  
“I’m not an idiot either,” Hux scoffs, “I didn’t say  _ go  _ to medical. How bad is it?”   
  
“Then you’d  _ know _ not to stand by the door.” DF-6066 makes a shooing motion, much to Hux’s chagrin, “I’ve had worse, and I’ve tended to worse.” It’s all too… casual, the man thinks, still not expecting to leave this experience alive,whole. He’s risking a blaster bolt, a knife to the back by turning  _ his _ on the captain, the only one who figured out his little secret, well known in the First Order as desperate for recognition, rank, respect. The captain who probably got this far, this young, by knowing how to  _ use  _ that knife.    
  
But this is the end of the line, and if he dies, he  _ dies _ . He could fight, he might (would) win, but…    
  
There are secrets even Hux doesn’t know. There is work yet still to do, and if this Empirical wanna-be wants to keep him alive simply to try to pick his brain…    
  
He’ll take it. Work with it. Make it work  _ for _ him.    
  
“You--” Hux looks like he wants to strike him and DF-6066 turns, drawing himself up to his full height in direct _ challenge _ and it dawns on the redhead: he’s  _ tall _ . Has he just never noticed? Has DF-6066 been slouching this whole time-- makes a fist instead before letting his fingers go lax, gesturing to the door. 

“You first, then.” 

So he goes, blaster in hand. 

“If you try a cheap shot while I’m not looking,” he makes careful, sweeping checks down both sides of the hallway, the destruction of the room behind him, abandoned, “I’m gonna be pissed.”    
  
No response.    
  
Typical.    
  


* * *

  
They’re alone; the return trip to the speeder is uneventful. No clerk at the counter, no ambush en route. DF-6066 rounds every corner, checks each piece of furniture as if they may be harboring secret dangers, but none appear. He’s thorough, Hux  _ will _ give him that much, but he’s assuming it’s for the trooper’s own benefit--more worried about his own skin than about following protocol.    
  
He still doesn’t quite know why he hasn’t killed the man like a  _ good _ officer would have; he’s not attached, certainly doesn’t feel indebted by the ‘heroics’ (DF-6066 was simply doing his job: protecting an officer with his life). He  _ does _ want to figure out just where the programming went wrong. He wasn’t  _ really _ going to kill the man earlier, but any edge he might have had in the situation was lost. The trooper must be expecting, waiting, for him to lash out, try and do him harm, eradicate the threat he poses to the Order.    
  
Not yet. He’s already planning on just  _ how _ to milk him for information without spooking DF-6066 or alerting his own peers (or worse, his  _ superiors _ ) to his plans, lest  _ they _ get trigger happy.    
  
Or  _ worse _ , try to steal credit for his efforts, should they pan out as planned.    
  
The ride back to Upsilon is similarly  _ boring _ .    
  
No one’s encountered on the road, but Hux swears he sees faces peeking between curtains in the little cabin-huts as they pass.    
  
The nearer they get to their starting point, the more he feels the man next to him tense with the fiery camaraderie they’d shared in the inn fading. Already, DF-6066 is more like the emotionless, obedient shell he’d adopted as his public persona. Monosyllabic responses to idle questions asked of him, to scenery pointed out.    
  
All tests, of course. Hux doesn’t  _ really _ give kriff about anything he’s talking about, not caring much for idle chitchat in general; he cares only about attempting to salvage his mission, gone tits up around him.    
  
It comes to a screeching halt as DF-6066 pulls up to the Upsilon; it’s intact, but everything  _ around _ it…    
  
There’s white armor strewn on the ground, bloodied, burned bodies still underneath.    
  
The speeder idles, stationary as they both survey the aftermath, Hux’s left hand in a white-knuckled grip on a support bar.    
  
“Fuck.”   


It’s the most emotional DF-6066 has sounded since they left the inn. Not a single man standing. Shot or beaten, every one--probably overwhelmed by violent, out of control locals. 

“This is why we need the Order,” Hux breathes out harshly, lowly, “It--”    
  
“Do you maybe  _ think _ they only did this  _ because _ we’re the First Order?”    
  
Hux blinks, turning to look at him, taken aback. 

“So, you’re speaking to me now?”    
  
DF-6066 falls silent again, fingers flying over settings and controls on the speeder’s dash, running a quick bio-scan. More efficient than searching for a potential attacker manually, safer, as well. 

“People see a squad of white bastards and think, well shit, it’s a hostile kassing takeover. No  _ shit _ they react badly. People get  _ murdered _ for just disagreeing, peacefully, verbally. They  _ see _ us, they see  _ death _ , worse than just their own. The death of everything they kriffing c _ are _ about.” Slams the release button on his safety harness and rolls free of the speeder, landing feet first on the ground.    
  
Ignoring his pretty little speech, the captain tries to figure out just what the purpose of being so grimly focused on leaving the speeder could be. The scan came up clear, so why was he--    
  
He’s collecting dogtags. Methodically, murmuring something over the bodies as he stops at each one. It’s primitive, Hux decides, whatever hasty vestige of funerary rites he’s clearly performing, primitive and  _ pointless _ . Doubtful that any of his squadmates knew him well, doubly so that they had previously shared any hint of a similar religious leaning. They’d never appreciate his efforts in life, if anything, they’d be  _ affronted. _ The First Order shunned dependency on societal  _ crutches _ like faith in otherwordly beings. His own father in particular rooted out any sympathies for it through The Program.    
  
Extricating himself from the speeder, he walks past DF-6066 as he’s visiting the last body.

“Walk free, Cee, walk free.” CX-7831, a good soldier, a better  _ friend _ ; the squad survivor undoes what armor he must to reach her tags, adding them to the set he’s collected so far but lingers a moment longer, picking up her hand and just…    
  
Holds it.    
  
With a sigh, he adjusts it so it rests over her chest and pushes himself to his feet. The First Order doesn’t collect the bodies of its fallen footsoldiers; they’re numerous-- _ replaceable _ \--in its eyes. Doesn’t even have a formal system for collecting the dogtags or recording those lost in service to its blood-hungry machinations… unless they were  _ officers _ , of course. And even then, only important ones.    
  
Watching from the bay door of the ship, Hux tilts his head; had they-- how to be  _ delicate? _ \--’fraternized’ before? DF-6066’s behavior indicates  _ fondness _ . He  _ had _ worked with CX-7831 previously, on many occasions. It was part of why Hux picked her for this, to see if any little moments could betray the fact they  _ had _ been close, if there was some bond to exploit.    
  
That little window of opportunity has been slammed shut.

DF-6066 stalks by him, the side of his fist kissing the bay door’s close button with a  _ thnnk _ ; he’s  _ angry _ , and Hux can’t help but reflexively try to dig the metaphorical knife a little deeper. 

“Do you wish you’d let me die, back there? Maybe they would have lived if you--” 

He’s expecting an outburst, a fist against a durasteel wall, maybe, but realistically, more fuming silence. 

He does not expect DF-6066 to whirl back on him (he should have, he should have, the trooper did physically challenge him once already), plastoid boots loud on the floor panels as he marches straight for him.

“What  _ is _ your fucking problem— do you think I’d like that? Do you think one more corpse solves anything? It wouldn’t bring them  _ back _ .” A hard, armored finger jabs at his chest before twisting in the uniform’s light grey fabric, hauling the smaller man up onto his toes. 

“They’re  _ dead. _ All in the name of this kriffing First Order  _ bullshit. _ ”    
  
Hux is unnerved by the waver in his own voice.

“I-it’s for the good of the--”    
  
The trooper isn’t  _ having _ it. 

“No. No. You don’t get to spout off hamfisted, self-agrandizing ‘ideals.’  _ You _ led them out here,  _ you _ had them stay back. All to get to  _ me _ . You people-- you-- you’re so  _ selfish _ , self centered--” DF-6066’s voice is disturbingly thick with emotion, even through the helmet’s distortion.    
  
Eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar, breath coming short and hard; Hux recognizes his own fear, is alarmed by it, but rationalizes it with the thought that  _ he’s never been physically threatened by a trooper before. _ All of his father’s soldiers had been impeccably trained, would never dream of laying hands on an officer. Being hoisted in the air like a doll and slammed back against the cold, equipment lined walls is a reality check: their warriors would  _ win _ if they broke their conditioning. Officers aren’t as well trained, or trained at  _ all _ , for battle. Equipment management on Star Destroyers, strategizers for battles, engineers--    
  
“Everything-- Everything I  _ do _ is for the Order, for the good of--” Hux is cut off again, the side of DF-6066’s arm slams next to his head and he curls in on himself, breath jerking and trailing off into a nasally  _ whine _ , arms over his face to protect himself from what blows might come.    
  
“That’s a drukload if I ever  _ heard _ one,  _ Captain Hux. _ You’re a spineless  _ rat _ who bitches because he thinks he deserves more than he has.”    
  
His jaw drops, but DF-6066 doesn’t stop.    
  
“Daddy issues a mile fuckin’ wide. Everyone sees how you look at that prick, but you want his fuckin’ title, don’t you? Pfffsak.  _ ‘Oh, for the good of the galaxy! For the good of its citizens!’  _ Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!” Another harsh shove.

“Everyone else is a steppin’ stool for you, because people like you, and oh, gods be! officer ranks and higher are  _ rife _ with your  _ ilk, _ people like you don’t even  _ see _ people like  _ me. _ Like  _ her, _ ” he gestures ferociously, jabs the air in the direction of CX-7831’s corpse.    
  
“We’re  _ nothing, _ just  _ tools _ to use and  _ break, _ but her? The rest of them? The sad fuckin’ part is they  _ believe  _ you fuckers.”    
  
Distantly, desperate for a distraction, Hux thinks he could use the preference for certain vulgarities,  _ somehow _ \--    
  
“Believe in this First Order crap, like it really  _ is  _ gonna do more but line your pockets and park your asses in seats you didn’t fuckin’ earn. Cowards, bullies, thieves, organized crime in pretty little uniforms. Admit it--do you  _ really _ want to help the galaxy, do you really wanna help the oh so poor little orphans on hog’s ass planets beyond just stuffin’ them into little uniforms and white armor and sending them out to die? For  _ nothing? _ ”    
  
DF-6066 furor reaches its peak, a the roaring crescendo crashes down over Hux; he’s gaping openly, unable to respond beyond  _ staring _ . There’s a part of him that’s just as furious at the braver displays of defiance, but it’s crushed by the dawning horror of realization that the trooper actually  _ might _ kill him in rage, by the sick mortification at being read so openly, so clearly by, yes, DF-6066 was right, he  _ does _ look at them like tools, a tool-- 

  
“I--”    
  
“Fuck,  _ off _ .” His voice  _ breaks _ , and he drops the man to the floor, hands up in surrender, but not to Hux, to the strife that’s warring under his skin. They drop to his side as walks to the cockpit, slow, as if he’s caught in tar, each step deliberate, painful.    
  
Hux can only watch over his shoulder from where he was dumped to the ground, frozen, and waits until the trooper is seated, clipped in, then he gets up carefully, quietly, never once taking his eyes off DF-6066.    
  
His steps are softer than a clawmouse scuttling over dunes, forcing himself to swallow down his terror, but he reaches the co-pilot seat and settles himself down, hands shaking only a  _ little _ as he belts himself in. _ It’s easier with two, it’s easier with two _ , he tells himself, it has nothing to do with the verbal throwdown that came crashing down around his ears, with being handled so roughly (but there’s an ugly urge to  _ placate _ the other man, to smooth over what just happened  _ so he won’t be hurt,  _ again--)    
  
Opens his mouth to speak, change the subject. 

“What about the spee--”  
  
“I’m sor--”   
  
They both freeze, speaking over each other.   
  
Hux nods his head to the side a little: _go first;_ DF-6066 gives one jerk to the right: _no,_ _you._   
  
“What about the speeder?” He enunciates slowly, as clearly as possible (to avoid having to _hear_ the tremor in his voice).   
  
“Lie about it. Say it got wrecked.”   
  
A huff. 

“It’s intact. What if a scouting team is sent back and sees it?” He feels like a child, trying to hide a broken toy.     
  
DF-6066 shrugs, “Then we blow it up before we jet off this fuckin’ planet.”    
  
“That’s…” he can’t even muster a patronizing, disciplinary tone anymore, damn this man, “...wasteful.”    
  
Another half-hearted shrug. 

“Do you want to get out, boot it up, load it up or do you just want to leave?”    
  
There’s no pause, he just speaks without really  _ thinking _ .

“I want to go home.” 

Tenses at the bare phrasing, at how easily it fell out of his mouth in a rush, but there’s no snort of derision, no mocking response, his ‘companion’ only nods.    
  
“‘s settled then.”    
  
They mechanically go through the necessary start-up protocols in shared silence; the Upsilon rises, fins and arrays spreading to support lift, to perform critical flight readings. It doesn’t go unnoticed to Hux that the force from it’s departure…  _ scatters _ the bodies below, blowing them a few feet from their resting places, haphazardly. Similarly, it doesn’t go unnoticed how tense DF-6066 is during take-off, during the speeder’s scuttling; Hux looks down, shoulders hiking on their own accord. He hears the click of teeth underneath the helmet, he bites down the urge to goad him  _ again _ (look how well that went), provoke him, even just to ask him  _ what _ he was going to say earlier.    
  
No need.    
  
“I’m sorry.”    
  
It’s hideously genuine, plainly spoken… and Hux can’t recall  _ ever _ hearing someone saying it to  _ him _ . He can’t speak, his throat feels uncomfortably tight, face hot; he busies himself with checking over readings, an excuse to not… reply, acknowledge.    
  
“What you did… was wrong but you didn’t--” it’s a minor balm that DF-6066 seems just as uncomfortable.

“It didn’t give me the right to scare you, or to touch you. You didn’t, you  _ don’t _ deserve that. I lost control, my temper-- I took it out on  _ you. _ ”    
  
He wants to scoff, to insult whatever sense of  _ honor _ is driving this little display; DF-6066 must think  _ oh-so _ highly of himself, that he’s  _ better _ than his peers, better than his superiors--    
  
“Didn’t scare me,” a quiet lie.    
  
“You’re still shaking,” a quiet  _ truth _ .    
  
And he  _ is _ .

“It isn’t-- it  _ doesn’t _ \--” Hux  _ hates _ struggling for words, for looking so weak and  _ delicate _ , in front of  _ this _ man, of all the people it had to be--    
  
“ _ You’re _ wrong.” Hux settles on a declaration, a twisted echo of DF-6066’s earlier assertions, “I  _ did _ deserve it.”    
  
Steady hands keep the shuttle going straight along its path, but the trooper turns to look at him; Hux wishes, sorely, he could see the look his face (except he doesn’t, because he’s afraid it’d be  _ pity _ ), and he looks back at him out of the corner of his eye. 

“Your… claims. Weren’t incorrect.”    
  
It’s the only explanation he can give, those things he can’t even say for himself _ , to  _ himself.

“And my poor choices got Stormtroopers killed.” But he still can’t quite call them people, not yet.

“I… wanted very badly to use you to further my own gains.”  Is the look on DF-6066’s face smug, astonished at the naked truths, or as disgusted with Hux as he himself is?

“You shoulda just killed me.” Frank, matter of fact, and  _ not _ what Hux had been prepared to hear. Another burst of moral outrage, sure, an ‘I told you so,’ maybe, but not  _ that _ .    
  
“I should have, yes.”    
  
“You still should.” Honest, straightforward, as if it’s an easy choice; if it’d been earlier in the day, it would have been. “I know too much, off my chain.”   
  
“You do.” Except it’s left there, no follow up threat or commentary; he doesn’t even reach for a knife or a blaster. They sit in the black, in solitude, the shuttle traveling at a steady clip, but there’s no effort on either of their parts to engage hyperdrive, return to the Finalizer as quickly as possible. Hux starts to chew at the inside of his lower lip, wincing when he’s swiftly reminded of the split. They’re both a little worse for wear. 

“We ought to plan our cover story.”    
  
“You make it sound like I’m stickin’ around,” a low drawl, but the delivery falls flat, a hopeless thing.    
  
Hux gives a single-shouldered shrug.

“Perhaps, apart from the unpleasantness, I didn’t find today completely abhorrent,” waves his hand, downplaying, minimizing, “besides, I’d be remiss if I didn’t thoroughly investigate your defiance.” Friends close, enemies closer, that sort of drivel, he can use to justify his actions to himself later.    
  
“Keep telling yourself that, sure.” 


End file.
